Friday, September 16, 2011

Ill, Ill, Ill

I've been avoiding this one. It makes grandparents nervous. And none of us want that. Now that all is well, however, I'm happy to recount the saga of Max's illness which spanned the last two weeks. The jury is still out on what exactly it was. The word "dengue" was heard frequently in our conversations.
We are, perhaps, some of the most fortunate foreigners in the country as far as healthcare is concerned. A brand new hospital, HOMS, has been built relatively close to our home (Josh and Max went three times in the last nine days). We also--get this--live two doors down from an excellent pediatrician who works (home visits included) for baked goods and a smile. Coincidentally, she is a Baha'i pioneer with a heart of gold. When little man Max was at his worst, paler than palomitas*, sitting on the pot with it coming out both ends, his eyes sunken, forehead on fire, head wobbling in attempts to keep it upright, this angel sat next to him, holding his hand, telling him everything would be okay. We are forever indebted to yet another wonderful soul.
Last night, my sweet boy ate and ate heartily. I looked at him. "Mama," he returned my gaze and spoke softly, "I've been hungry all weekend." (The "weekend" is, of course, an abstract concept to him meaning "the last few days.") Kid had either not been able to keep anything down or had been relegated to the BRAT* diet. A proper meal had been a personal goal of his all "weekend."
We'll be packing the pounds back on him in coming weeks. Grandma Jan will be here before we know it (Read: Lots of spoilin'). And all is well.